Mercurial
by PaintedinAllColors
Summary: Night after night, Sherlock loses. This time, though, he won't. (M to be safe)


_So. Fuck if I know what this is. Enjoy ;)_

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_"We're just alike, you and I. Except you're boring." _

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Sherlock comes into the flat late at night, stains like charcoal smeared dark on alabaster skin just above his cheekbones, just under his eyes. His footsteps ghost over the floors, his gaunt figure lean and soundless as he makes his way to his room. The door closes, a coat is flung to the floor gracelessly, a puddle of dark fabric. The scarf around his throat joins it, revealing a pale throat that shines in the moonlight but for slowly fading blue-green and red near his shoulder. Long fingers fumble over a button on his shirt, a muttered curse that fades into the night as he discards that too. The moonlight shines in through the diaphanous curtains, casting a silvered tint over everything in his room.

His hands find a cigarette and a lighter of their own accord as he steps towards the window, eyes like shards of flint. The scratch of the lighter, the brief flame that appears before he lifts the slim stick to his lips, all comforting parts of the routine. Numbing, if you will. The smoke tastes the same, like want and need combined, lust for something stronger, but he refuses to give into that. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke wreaths his disheveled curls, lingering before floating into the chill night. The cold prickles at his skin as he takes another drag. Inhale, exhale. Calming, soothing action that stills the tremble in his fingers, quiets the whispers of insanity humming in the walls.

Purple flowers grace his skin, violent violets, bite marks harsh standing in red triumphant glory. Sherlock Holmes swallows dryly, his lips turning downwards into a frown. He knows he needs to stop but-

But nothing. His mind always disappears, the voice that sounds suspiciously like John's drowned out in the shameful cacophony of his own screams, the walls of his mind palace morphing into fluid, creeping things trapping him in a void of pleasure and no logic, the deductions stuttering to a blissful halt. And after every single night, with every single bruise decorating his hips, his neck, his wrists, Sherlock only craves more-one more night, one last time, one last chance to win.

He clears his throat, swallowing two aspirin dry. He's started keeping them in his room, closing the door as he lies awake mapping out the macabre decorations he would give the next and last time. It's not love, far from it; they both laugh in the face of such an idiotic, useless sentiment. Sherlock simply cannot get enough, a new brand of cocaine, a new, more dangerous high. The cold, sharp edge of the knife he sometimes brings, twirling it around fingers Sherlock knows he could put a better use to. Sherlock's hands clench into fists. Jim Moriarty is a spider, a carnivorous beast ready to rip him into shreds, but Sherlock Holmes cannot get enough. He's already caught up in the web, and he's handing over the knife to cut himself free over every night.

"Pathetic." His voice has even penetrated his mind palace, and even the shackles and straitjacket he wears there cannot stop his poisonous presence oozing through the corridors, demanding attention.

"No," Sherlock whispers, even though a part of his says yes, begging licentiously for more punishment because oh can he take it that delicious pain.

"You are, my little angel." Laughter rings through the empty labyrinth of his mind, files of cases overturned, sheafs of paper flying. Chaos is what Moriarty brings, what he breathes, what flows through his veins. Chaos that sings so temptingly, eyes half-lidden and pupils blown wide with lust. "You're on the side of the angels, Sherlock, but not for long. I'll tear those pretty little wings off, Sherlock, paint them red in your own blood," his voice deepens with the threat, giggles spiraling in echoes through the hallways. "I'll take them as trophies, reminders of darling little Sherlock who didn't listen to Daddy."

"You're sick," Sherlock replies in disgust to the empty, still room. Too empty, too quiet, too peaceful. He doesn't know who he's talking to, anymore, just that he has to win. To win is to beat this...obsession. To bite back, to have the knife in his hands tomorrow night, that would mean the end of it. Tenuous strings of control would snap-oh but this time they would be his-pure pleasure surging through his body, adulterated by the pain and challenge-but he would be giving this time, and Sherlock's mouth curls up into a smirk at the thought. Daddy would get a taste of his own medicine. Tomorrow night.

!~!~!~!

Sherlock has him sprawled out on those red, red sheets, crimson insanity crackling between them. He smirks at the surprise scrawled across Moriarty's face-an expression Sherlock yearned to see. It vanishes, accompanies by a raised eyebrow. Neither of them speak, not usually, a rule that has remained unbroken until now.

"Sherlock," Moriarty rasps, and a thrill of pride runs through him that his nemesis is the first to break that rule. Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow as he adjusts the knot, knowing he's won.

Until Moriarty smiles, eyes lighting up with a manic, consuming fervor. Sherlock takes the knife in his hand, tossing it into the air where it glints metallic in the darkness-a new moon tonight, Sherlock idly observes as he catches it.

"You know," he ruminates, looking at Moriarty. "You aren't the only changeable one here." His heart pounds, sending adrenalin dancing through his veins, sweet electricity.

"Is that so?" Sherlock can hear the laughter, the contempt in his voice.

"Yes," his voice is clipped, in control. He's winning this round, and after this...he can stop. He can finally stop.

"What are you waiting for, Sherlock?" The challenge is evident in his voice, the voice Sherlock wants to scream his name and beg him for mercy. He bites down, hard, on his collarbone, smirking at the gasp it elicits and the flush of color that appears. It's satisfying to leave his mark, more than he thought possible.

"Nothing," he smirks, raising the knife. His hands tremble, and Moriarty sees it from the sheen in his eyes, dark with lust. No hesitation, Sherlock tells himself, but his voice is replaced by Jim's in his mind as the knife comes down.

The rope falls to the bed, rolls off of it, the knife is flung to a corner carelessly.


End file.
